


If He Be Worthy (Or: 5 Legendary Weapons Thor Held, +1 He Forged Himself)

by Ael



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Amputation, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kid Thor (Marvel), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Thor (2011), Snapshots, Thor-centric, Thor: Ragnarok (2017)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-23 18:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18155624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael/pseuds/Ael
Summary: A weapon is worth far more than simply its ability to kill, and its Name is more than just a name. And Thor is not, in fact, the God of Hammers.





	1. HOFUND

It is the duty of a prince of the Realm to have a working knowledge of every aspect of a king's duties, and the royal tutors seem to want Thor to learn them all at once. Court manners, the intricacies of diplomacy and trade agreements, lineages and laws across the Nine, and on and on they drone til his head grows heavy and stupid with it all.

 

He envies Loki sometimes, seeing his brother thrive under such academic rigors, and if the younger prince could choose one place to spend all his free time, Thor would wager his birthright that it'd be the Grand Library. Not so with Thor. Oh, he doesn't mind books, but they're so dry and dull and _quiet_ , and he inevitably finds his attention wandering to the nearest window to watch the clouds drift by over the glimmering city below, casting great shadows over the waters at the rim of the world. And at the very edge of the great waterfall, at the end of the brilliant glow of the rainbow bridge, the gleaming gold Observatory stands silent watch over the cosmos.

 

He's only a mere boy, so the lure of the unknown is impossible to resist, eager to explore outside the confines of the palace, impatient for his lessons to move to the Bifröst on their own. So one day he saddles his pony, as if to ride in the foothills at the center of Asgard, and instead turns his mount outward toward the watchman's post, beyond the open gates.

 

The pony's hooves spark flares of light at every hoofbeat, and Thor looks over his shoulder at the shimmering trail they're leaving behind, laughing in childish delight. The towering height of Gladsheim seems all the more impressive the further away he moves, towering high into the star-studded sky, a worthy sight for any new arrival by Bifröst to greet them.

 

Thor looks forward again as the pony's gait slows, trotting through the archway and coming to a stop at the base of the pedestal in the center of the room. Though he has never before seen it with his own eyes, every Asgardian knows the proper home for Hofund, the Blade That Opens The Way. But the sword is not there, and Thor dismounts his horse, frowning at its absence, reaching for the pedestal to touch it as if that will make it reveal its secrets.

 

"You do not have permission to be in here."

 

Thor can't help but jump, startled, guilty, at the sound of a much deeper voice, and turns to face the watchman. Heimdall towers over the boy, resplendent in polished golden armor, and perhaps it is the horned helmet which makes him seem so tall but Thor is convinced he's never seen anyone this giant without being an _actual_ giant. The watchman peers down at him with eyes as golden as his armor, stone-faced, and in his hands rests the hilt of a gleaming sword with bared blade, its sharp tip resting on the floor between his feet.

 

Heimdall is silent like he's waiting for an answer, and his gaze is even heavier than Father's, making Thor shift uncomfortably at the impression that the watchman can see right through him. Maybe he can; it's said that Heimdall sees everything, and in this moment, Thor believes it.

 

But he is a _prince_ of Asgard, and he fears nothing and no one, or so he tells himself. He straightens his back, drawing himself up to his full height, though that only brings his head level with Heimdall's elbows. "I'm just early, that's all," he says, with all the brash, youthful confidence he can muster.

 

Heimdall's expression does not so much as twitch, standing as still as the statues that line the halls of the palace. "Indeed?" There's a note of... _something_... in his voice, which Thor will later come to recognize as amusement.

 

"A prince of Asgard must learn all there is to know about being a king, and that includes the Bifröst," Thor presses on, and though he does not mean to, his gaze returns to the sword held in the watchman's hands for a moment before hastily looking back up again. "I don't want to learn it all from books, I want to _see_ it myself. How am I meant to truly grasp my lessons if I don't experience things first-hand?"

 

For a moment, as the watchman looks down at him, Thor is convinced that his pleas will be disregarded, that Heimdall will be like his tutors and tell him that he's not ready, sending him back to the palace where he will no doubt be scolded for disregarding his lesson plans for the day. Instead, the gatekeeper inclines his head and asks, "What do you know of Bifröst, my prince?"

 

Thor is far too pleased with himself for swaying Heimdall's attention away from his trespass that it doesn't occur to him that he should not have gotten away with it so easily, missing the small fond smile on the watchman's lips as the young prince dutifully recites the basic principles of interstellar transport from his lessons. Heimdall listens patiently, with all the gravity he would give his king, and Thor feels a swell of pride in his small chest to be taken so seriously by an adult of such standing.

 

"Hofund is how Asgard opens and closes the gateway," he concludes at last, now eyeing the shining blade with naked curiosity. It certainly _looks_ like a sword ought, its edge sharp enough to cut a man in half with a single swing, if its dwarven design is any indication. "Is it just a key, or a sword in truth? Could you use it to fight?"

 

This time, Heimdall does smile, and hefts the blade in his hands, resting it across his palms as if pledging his sword arm to his liege lord. "I can, and I have. A gatekeeper must always be vigilant for threats against the Realm; he is the first line of defense against any who breach our gates. A mere key would serve my hand poorly when battle calls." The watchman bends at the waist as if in a courtly bow, lowering the blade within easy reach of smaller hands. "Would you like to test its balance?"

 

Thor has not yet been allowed to hold a true sword, one that has been sharpened for battle and bloodied against a foe, his warrior's training still restricted to blunted blades until he can build the proper muscle to wield deadlier weaponry. How could he pass up an opportunity like this? Thor's small hands close eagerly on the hilt and he grunts in surprise as he tries to lift it, its weight far heavier than he expected. The sharp tip wobbles as he raises it into a fighting stance, and he swings it like he's been taught, striking at an imaginary foe and nearly cutting a furrow in the floor as the weight of it pulls his arms downward. He takes little notice, however, distracted by the thrumming of energy between his hands, resonating in the core of the weapon and curling up his arms. "It tingles," Thor exclaims, peering more closely at the blade as if that would help him see the spells woven deep in the fabric of its existence.

 

"Yes," Heimdall agrees, and takes a handful of deliberate steps up to the pedestal, Thor trailing along in his wake. "What you sense is dark energy, drawn to Hofund as lightning is drawn to metal. The lenses of Himinbjörg focus these energies, allowing the gatekeeper to direct Bifröst with the greatest precision. Here, see for yourself."

 

Eager to see the Bifröst in action, Thor heaves Hofund up, forced to stand on the very tips of his toes to stretch high enough to insert the sword into the pedestal. Its power hums under his hands as the blade slides home, warm and golden in his mind's eye, its soul reaching deep into the mechanism around him and pulsing steadily with patient energy, like a heart at rest. "It's like it's alive," Thor says in awe.

 

"In a way, it is." Heimdall's large hand covers Thor's where it rests on Hofund's hilt, and the sword pulses brighter at the familiar touch of its master. Together, they turn the key in its lock, and the great walls of the Observatory shift smoothly, revealing the expanse of stars that lie within the nebula beyond Asgard's shores. Heimdall's gaze is on Thor, however, watching as the boy peers out into the depths of space as if he too could summon the All-Seer's sight if he tried hard enough. "Names hold power, for arms as well as people, and those forged of uru most of all. Hofund is 'the head,' from which foresight and patience spring. Without these things, a warrior is nothing."

 

It has never occurred to Thor that patience would be so revered, but as he turns the thought over in his mind, he supposes that a man whose watch consists of standing in solitude every single day would be lost entirely without it. "But how can you be patient without getting bored?" the young prince asks, looking up at the gatekeeper.

 

"Years of practice." Heimdall's expression is as grave as ever, but his sharp gaze flickers with laughter at Thor's childish groan. "It is a skill like any other, one you will learn in time. To that end, perhaps the king might permit you to come to me with questions, should you ask it of him."

 

Thor had almost forgotten that his presence in the Observatory is unsanctioned, and he casts a sheepish look down at his feet before stepping back from Hofund's pedestal. "I should get back before somebody notices I'm gone," he decides, and turns hopeful eyes on the golden gatekeeper. "You won't tell on me, will you?"

 

Heimdall does not twitch a muscle as he responds, "I am sworn to report all that I see to my king, if the matter is of concern to him. However," he adds, just as the prince's heart starts to sink, "a spot of childish disobedience is no threat to the Nine Realms. I will tell him _if_ I am asked."

 

Foresight, patience... discretion. Later, much later, Thor will look back on these lessons and berate himself for not paying attention sooner. But now, young and naive, he hastily bows as he backs toward where he left his pony, which is still patiently standing on the flat plane of the rainbow bridge. "Thank you for your counsel, good watchman," he chirps as he's been taught, and impulsively waves in goodbye as he turns to retreat back to Gladsheim.

 

Heimdall chuckles and turns to face the cosmos, but his inner eye remains on Thor, watching over the youngster as he has since the lad's birth, safeguarding his journey home.


	2. JARNBJORN

Nidavellir burns brightly at the center of the layered rings, throwing auras of gold and purple and blue, and Thor can hardly keep his eyes off its beauty. The bright stellar beam burns hot over his head, stoking the fires of the forge, and the air rings with the sounds of striking hammers and clanking gears, the dwarves hard at work crafting arms and armor.

 

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

 

Though Thor is now nearly tall enough to look his mother in the eye, he still has to crane his neck back to meet Eitri's eyes, the craftsman towering over him at twice an adult Asgardian's height. Dark eyes gleam proudly over the dwarf's thick braided beard, and his tread shakes the deckplates under the prince's boots as he steps closer to watch the dying star cast its light.

 

"It's beautiful," Thor agrees without hesitation. "The weapons it makes are even moreso. Not that it's solely responsible," he adds hastily, in case his careless words offend the smith.

 

Eitri just laughs though, or at least Thor thinks he does. "You will never find a finer blade than one of dwarven make, your highness. This forge crafted Gungnir for Odin-King, and one day, we may forge an even grander weapon for the next king to sit on Hlidskjalf."

 

Him, in other words. Impatience burns in his belly, eager to leap forward centuries and hold his newly-crafted spear in his hand. Or perhaps it will be a sword, like Hofund? Surely not a mere dagger, as Loki prefers. A king needs a weapon to draw the eye, to inspire awe and obedience. But no amount of yearning will summon the future, and Thor has a more immediate prize to hold his interest. "It is ready?" he asks eagerly, glancing down to Eitri's empty hands as though he will find it if he looks hard enough.

 

"The mold is almost prepared," Eitri confirms, clapping a weighty hand on Thor's shoulder and nearly knocking him to his knees. "I thought you might like to watch its casting."

 

"Of course!" His first _real_ weapon, meant for battle and blood outside the sparring ring, deserves no less. He's long since graduated from dull practice blades, of course, but there is a difference between some sword plucked from thousands of identical brothers and one that's been forged for his hand alone. Unique.

 

Thor has to hurry to keep step with Eitri as the master smith leads the way deeper into the heart of the ring, where white-hot cauldrons of molten uru wait to be poured and shaped into deadlier forms. A block-like mold is placed in position, its pattern hidden within its depths, and though Thor is not often fond of surprises, he finds himself eager to learn what lies within, anticipation curling in his chest.

 

He peppers Eitri and the other smiths with questions as the weapon is cast, leaning precariously close to the molten metal to watch it disappear into the mold, until a giant hand grabs the back of his tunic and gently yet firmly hauls him back again. It seems like it takes forever for the mold to cool, and Eitri carefully separates the two halves, revealing a long curved axe-head, still spilling heat and light like an ember pulled from a hearth. The smiths handle the hot metal with skilled care, using their tools to seat the blade on its inscribed haft, carved with knotwork and runes to match those cast into its head, enchantments of everlasting sharpness and durability. Finally, the cooled weapon is placed in Thor's eager hands, and he turns the axe over again and again to admire its shine. "It's wonderful. Does it have a name?"

 

Eitri's smile is lost in the depths of his beard, but Thor can hear it in his voice anyway. "Not yet. The honor of naming it belongs to you; choose it with care."

 

Though it's been decades since Heimdall first explained to him the importance of a weapon's Name, Thor has not forgotten it. Fresh out of the fires of the forge, the axe gleams as one newly born, awaiting the first word that will define its place in the world.

 

What does he wish his weapon to be? Powerful, fierce, a force to be reckoned with. Dangerous enough to slay dozens and still come out fighting, yet not so wild it'd be better off in a berserker's hand. Solid, trustworthy, reliable.

 

"Jarnbjorn," Thor decides, after a long moment's thought.

 

"Iron bear, eh? A fine choice." Eitri pats his shoulder again, smiling indulgently down at the prince. "May it serve you well in battle."

 

And so it does. Over the next two centuries, Jarnbjorn is tested and bloodied in real combat, Thor's fledgling service with the Einherjar taking him to small border skirmishes and minor uprisings in the far reaches of the Nine. The axe hums gladly in his hand each time it is swung, an echo of the boundless youthful battlelust that takes Thor into the chaos of combat and guides his hand to strike true, and each time, it hungers for more. As does he.

 

Until the day his eagerness, his recklessness, finally bites him back.

 

It only takes a moment.

 

Thor is laughing as he throws himself into the fray, as he has countless times before. It's only a small battle, some marauders seeking to take advantage of what they assume to be Asgard's lack of vigilance while the Allfather is in the Odinsleep. A grave error on their part. Thor expects the battle will be disappointingly brief, and that he and the other soldiers will be back in Gladsheim in time for the midday meal. His stomach rumbles at the thought of the roast ox and pheasant that await him, and in his distraction he fails to block a blow that wrenches Jarnbjorn from his grasp entirely.

 

Indignant and enraged, he turns on his attacker bare-handed, grappling the mercenary's arm to halt the fall of the enemy's sword toward his head. A flicker of movement at the corner of his eye, the scuff of a second pair of enemy boots, a glint of shining uru as he starts to turn-

 

His armored bracer offers no resistance against the immaculate sharpness of Jarnbjorn's blade, and the axe slices clean through Thor's right wrist, the crack of bone like an explosion in his ears, and for a horrific moment he can only stare in disbelief at the sight of his own hand lying limply in the dirt at his feet, thick red blood gushing in spurts from the ruin of his forearm. Vaguely, he's aware that he should be screaming in pain, but Thor's battle-blood is surging too strongly in his veins to feel it, and he clutches at the wound as if to keep his life from bleeding away, fingers quickly growing slick with warm wetness. As if from a distance, he hears the crack of thunder and bellows along with it, vision painted white.

 

He kneels in a scorched crater, red spilling in a thick pool around his legs, the sounds of fighting growing distant in his ears. Hands grab at him and he snarls and thrashes until the voices become familiar and he finally sees Hogun's face before his, the Vanir's hands bracing either side of Thor's head.

 

"Thor, you will bleed out if you do not let the healers help you," Hogun is saying, and when he's satisfied the young prince is finally listening, he moves as if to step back.

 

Thor wishes to grab at him, but his good hand refuses to let go of his wounded arm, as if it is all that is keeping him from death. "Hogun, my axe... where is it?"

 

But Hogun only shakes his head, looking incredulous that Thor's concern would lie with his stolen weapon rather than the life bleeding out of him with every pump of his heart. "They took it. It's gone."

 

And Thor is so furious with the marauders, with _himself_ , that he can see nothing but red, red, darkening to black as his senses leave him entirely.

 

The healers keep him in a regenerative sleep for five days while the enchantments knit severed bone and flesh back together. He is fortunate, he is told, that Jarnbjorn makes such clean cuts, and that his hand was not destroyed altogether before it could be reunited with his arm. But Thor does not _feel_ fortunate. It was his lack of vigilance that is to blame for his disgrace. His fault for not being stronger, for being faster, for not crushing his enemies as swiftly as he could have. For not being _better_.

 

His fault for letting go.

 

He trains hard to restrengthen his weakened arm, building muscle so that he may never lose his grasp on his weapon again, determined to be as strong as his body will allow. None shall ever best Thor again, not if he has his say in it. Yet the scar that traces around his wrist remains, a whitened line to mark his failure for the rest of his days.

 

Thor covers it with a vambrace often, from then on.


End file.
